


At the sound of his roar, sorrows will be no more

by Gorgeousgreymatter



Series: Always Female Stiles 'verse: I will run you like a thread [12]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Alpha Derek Hale, Always Female Stiles Stilinski, Biting, Body Worship, Cis Female Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale Takes Care of Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale is a Nice Thing, Devotion, Dirty Talk, Dom Derek Hale, F/M, Female Stiles Stilinski, Good Alpha Derek Hale, Handcuffs, Injured Stiles Stilinski, Kneeling, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Love Bites, Mates Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Derek, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, Punishment, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Stiles Stilinski Deserves Nice Things, and chains, but in a soft way, but soft, use of a gag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:42:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28045614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorgeousgreymatter/pseuds/Gorgeousgreymatter
Summary: “Am I in trouble?” Stiles asks, honestly a little shocked by the breathlessness of her own voice.Derek cocks his head. “Not that I know of.”“But I’ve been mopey,” Stiles offers, "and stubborn.” Okay, understatement, she can admit that to herself. Belligerent might, maybe, be a better term.“I’m supposed to punish you for being mopey?” Derek bares his teeth in what she thinks is supposed to be a smile and laughs. "And here I thought stubborn was pretty much your natural state.”
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Always Female Stiles 'verse: I will run you like a thread [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1719364
Comments: 7
Kudos: 162





	At the sound of his roar, sorrows will be no more

**Author's Note:**

> Got a little bit of the mojo back. I tried to make this dirtier, but Derek is so soft for Stiles because I cannot make him otherwise lol 
> 
> Also, spot the West Wing reference c:

At the sound of his roar, sorrows will be no more

It’s the thunder that wakes her up. It’s not the most soothing way to come up for air, so all Stiles can do for a minute is panic, crushed under the weight of her own heart rabbiting in her chest. Where is she? Whose ceiling is she staring at right now? Where’s Derek? And god, why god, does her head currently feel like it's splitting itself in two? All valid questions, she thinks. 

When she’s finally able to move, even though she can admit that part is _not_ her best showing of gracefulness, and blink herself back to reality, it all starts filtering into her brain, a slow drip like liquid molasses. _Jackson. Training exercise gone wrong. Mild concussion._ Even though the size of her headache does not currently lend itself to that word -- _mild._ Mild, her ass. She’s dying here. It doesn’t help the way her stomach flip flops, either, in that ocean of guilt that’s currently her insides. She could, should, would have just gotten out of the way. Instead, she’d miscalculated, ended up on the wrong end of Jackson’s attempt at a body slam. And being the breakable, little human that she was, she kind of broke...just a little. She hadn’t even been unconscious for that long, maybe thirty seconds at most, but when she came to, fuck, she’d have thought her head was on backward or something, the way everyone was fussing over her. 

Derek especially (obviously), with his shockingly and uncharacteristically pale face, those damn eyebrows all screwed up with worry as he white-knuckled the steering wheel the whole way to the hospital. The hospital he and the rest of the pack’d had to drag her kicking and screaming through the front doors. Of course, then she’d ended up vomiting on Jackson’s shoes (whatever, payback), and things after that had gotten a little bit blurry. Stiles had sort of lost that battle.

She'd won the war though, flat-out refusing to stay overnight and begging Derek repeatedly to take her home. And he gave in, because of course he did, because he knew better than anyone exactly why she couldn’t stay there. Wouldn’t stay there. So he’d taken her back to the loft, put her to bed, and tasked himself with babysitting her -- curling around her back for what she thinks has been about twelve hours, glancing at the clock, of him licking her bruises and cuts and drawing out pain at various random intervals.

Well, if it’s been that long, she can’t really begrudge him a break. She’ll forgive Derek for making her wake up alone. This time. She’s put him through enough the last couple of days. Still, she can’t help feeling the loss of him anyway, the same way they both do when they aren’t touching. Which would be annoying, and is, if it weren’t so damn good when they finally _do_ get their hands on each other. It isn’t hard to find him though. When it’s storming like this, he likes to watch, listen, so that’s where she finds him: book in hand and sitting in one of the chairs on the patio as the rain falls in sheets onto the pavement. 

He’s heard her, obviously, so there’s no surprise in his voice when he speaks. “You’re awake.”

“No thanks to you,” she quips. The concrete is cold under her bare feet as she pads across it, but it’s so warm outside that even the storm isn’t enough to chill her. It’s still hot, the air stiflingly thick from the humidity, sticky against her bared skin. “I thought you were supposed to keep waking me up because of the whole concussion thing?”

Derek smiles weakly through a sigh. “That’s outdated medical advice, which you would know, Steve McQueen, if you’d actually listened to the doctor instead of planning your great escape the whole time he was trying to talk to us.” 

He motions for her to come sit in his lap, but Stiles knows what she wants ( _needs,_ that familiar voice in her head prods at her). When she’s close enough to touch, she falls to her knees in front of him, hiding her wince as she does. “I’ve been sleeping forever. I don’t wanna sleep anymore."

“Stiles…” This time there’s no smile when he breathes out. “You’re supposed to be resting. We can go inside, I’ll get back in bed with you, just --”

Stiles isn’t sure why he’s bothering to argue with her. He should know better than anyone where that road inevitably leads. 

“At least let me get you something for your knees, sweetheart.” 

Stiles just shakes her head.

Derek lets out one of those low, rumbling growls, but it’s half-hearted at best, and she doesn’t even need to look up from where she’s nestled her head against his hip to know she’s won. The way he threads his fingers through her hair is just an added bonus. 

“What are you reading?” she murmurs, her eyes fluttering closed under his attention. _“Call of the Wild?”_

“Ha ha," Derek says, tugging gently on an errant curl that’s fallen into his lap. “You’re hilarious.” 

“Yes, I am,” Stiles answers, pressing a grin and a kiss to his knee. “My head hurts,” she adds. Sue her, she can’t help whining just a little. Derek doesn’t say anything to that, because the answer is, of course, _duh._ Stiles can’t deny the relief she feels when she sees the way his veins flex, going black as he draws out the hurt for her. Still, part of her misses the ache, just a little. And if that’s not proof she’s a little fucked up...

“Better?”

She hums. “Better.” Without the throbbing in her temple, it’s a little easier to open her eyes again. Which is nice, because she gets to look at Derek. And that, that’s always nice. 

“Stiles,” Derek says softly, which makes her bristle just a little, because that’s his _serious_ voice, and she doesn’t think she can handle that right now. Not with her brain all fuzzy with guilt and anxiety and exhaustion, and she guesses the whole concussion thing doesn’t exactly help with any of it. “Do you want to tell me why you’re --” 

“No,” Stiles says firmly, trying to burrow somehow further into him. She feels a little guilty saying it, too, because she knows Derek won’t press. He never does, and she loves him for that. She also knows it’s not exactly fair, because when the tables are turned, he tells her anything. Everything. Even if it’s something that tears him open just by doing so. Derek just hands her the pieces, simply because she asks. “I just want you to read to me. Even if it’s _Call of the Wild.”_

The wolf just rolls his eyes and flashes the cover at her.

It’s a battered copy of _The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe._ It’s the last thing she’s expecting, and for some reason it only makes him more endearing. It’s not like she was visualizing _Brooding for Dummies_ or anything, but the fact that it’s that book, a little creased and battered in his hands, clearly well-loved, is so sweet she could nearly cry. 

Derek looks suspicious, like he’s expecting her to make fun of him or complain. All she does is press her lips to his thigh again, which she thinks is a pretty clear indicator that she’s just fine with this. 

More than fine, actually. 

Derek should know exactly why she needs this. Like this, things are quieter, at least in her head. Stiles can just float here, buoyed by his voice, low and soft, sliding over her skin and steadying her the same way his hands always do. The rhythmic drumming of heavy raindrops hitting the ground, the groaning thunder and crackles of lightning. That, and getting lost in a story where it’s always winter and never Christmas. Right now, this is what steadies her.

“I never could understand how Edmund could sell out his whole fucking family for Turkish Delight. I mean, what even is Turkish Delight? It doesn’t even sound all that delightful,” she mumbles sleepily when Derek eventually pauses (she’s got no idea how long it’s been, fading in and out at various points, growing increasingly warm and entirely too comfortable). To check on her she thinks because he’s quiet for a long moment. Probably listening to her breathing, her heartbeat the same way she’s guessing he’s been doing since he brought her home. 

“It’s not like he traded them for a Snickers bar,” Derek says, matter-of-fact, “the White Witch enchanted it. If you eat it, it just makes you want more. You’d eat yourself to death if you had the chance, so selling your family out for it probably doesn't seem so farfetched, all things considered."

Stiles would kiss him right now if she could summon the strength to move. “Can I just say how much I love that you know that?” She’s not joking, either. Derek still manages to surprise her with these little bits of himself, and honestly, she hopes he never, ever stops. 

“I just read it in the book like ten minutes ago,” he says, and Stiles wants to laugh because he sounds so adorably defensive. “It’s not like I had it memorized like some Dungeons and Dragons freak.” 

“Hey, I happen to find nerds incredibly hot. You’ve got nothing to worry about, Sourwolf.” 

Derek snorts, tugging on her hair again, chidingly. “Brat.”

 _“Your brat,”_ she says predictably, stifling her giggles. “Keep going, please?” 

They both know he’s going to, because she’s asked. Same as they both know as soon as she falls asleep again, he’ll carry her inside, tuck her into bed, climb in and not let her go until she tells him to. 

“Okay,” Derek whispers, and Stiles breathes out like she’s doing it for the first time all night when she feels his thumb swipe over the bow of her lip. She presses a kiss to his fingertip and feels the rumbling purr it earns her like she’s got her hand pressed against his chest instead of curled over his thigh. “Okay.” 

...

Derek barely makes it halfway through another chapter before Stiles goes soft against him, out like a light. He’s kind of impressed actually--he hadn’t expected her to make it past another page or two. As he carries her back to the bedroom, he tries not to think about how eerily similar it feels to the way he'd carried her into that hospital not even a day ago. It’s not a good memory, obviously. 

Stiles lets out a little noise of protest when he lays her down, and he can’t help smirking when she automatically sprawls out into that starfish position where she somehow manages to take up the whole bed in a way that just doesn’t make sense for someone her size. Maybe that’s why he finds it weirdly adorable instead of annoying. She’s pliant enough for him to slide in next to her without manhandling her too much. 

“Mmmmph,” she mumbles into his shoulder when he pulls her close and she tucks herself under his chin, nuzzling so sweetly into his throat. “‘would never betray you for enchanted candy, Sourwolf. Promise. Not even if it was _really, really_ good candy.”

Derek somehow manages not to laugh, pressing his lips to the top of her head. “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.” 

Stiles sighs, seemingly satisfied, and it’s not long after that he hears her breathing slow again. Like this, she smells calmer, settled, with that slightly bitter, staled scent of guilt that’s followed her around since he’d brought her home abated--for the moment, at least. It doesn’t get any easier, seeing her hurt like this. He hates it more than he’s hated anything in his entire life. But if Derek hates it, he also knows he’ll probably never hate it more than Stiles does. It’s too easy to forget sometimes, for all of them, that she’s human because Stiles does her best to _make_ them forget. Nobody wants to erase that “fragile human” stamp on her forehead more than she does. 

And it’s times like these when he’s holding her bruised and broken body close to his, that he can’t help but wonder, and he knows he’s not the only one.

_“It would be easier, wouldn’t it?”_

_“What?” The question throws him, mostly because he doesn’t quite know what the sheriff means when he’s asking it. They’ve been sitting here in these uncomfortable chairs for almost an hour just waiting for Stiles to be finished with her CT scan (just a precaution, the doctor had said, but that doesn’t mean Derek had been any less anxious watching her go into that machine, trapped behind that damn plexiglass unable to do anything. Not even hold her hand)._

_The sheriff is quiet again for almost a beat too long before answering. “If she was, you know...like you.”_

_Derek blinks, dumbstruck, though maybe he really shouldn’t be. It’s not the first time or the last time she’ll get hurt because of him, because of what he is, and what they are. The man’s got a right to ask. “Maybe,” Derek says. “Probably.”_

_Stiles’s father nods stoically. “Is --” he continues, “is that something you’d want?”_

_“No, sir. But it doesn’t matter what I want,” Derek says quietly. “I want whatever she wants.”_

_Apparently, that was the right thing to say, because John just nods again, and they fall back into that awkward silence. Derek surprises himself when he’s the first one to break it, guilt making his gorge rise so high that even he can’t keep his mouth shut. “Do you wish things were different? For her, I mean?” It would be easier, better probably, because nobody can deny his coming back to Beacon Hills, his fucked up family, what he is -- it hadn't really done Stiles any favors, especially in the beginning._

_“Son, you’ve got to let go of the idea you have control of almost anything if you’re going to be married to my daughter.” Stiles’s father laughs, and Derek can’t help but stare, incredulous. Because it’s real, genuine laughter, and it’s moments like this he realizes why Stiles is exactly the way she is and exactly where she gets it from. “Besides,” the sheriff adds, shrugging, “if wishes were horses, right?”_

_“Maybe I oughta take some riding lessons…” Derek says, grimacing._

_“Something tells me you’ll be okay, kid,” the sheriff says with a smile that Derek doesn’t quite understand, but somehow feels almost...comforting. “Stiles has a tendency to be right about almost everything, anyway. Infuriating, isn’t it?”_

The conversation had ended with that, because Stiles had been wheeled out moments later, and then Derek was suddenly forced to be a lot more concerned with keeping her from pulling out her IV out of pure spite than anything else. And after that, she’d begged to go home and Derek couldn’t tell her no, because how could he? Force her to stay in that place where the only memories she had were the worst kind? It’s not like he could blame her. Derek hated it there too, because he could smell all of it -- all that death and misery mixed with antiseptic and blood and bleach and soaked into the walls like lead paint. He could hardly stand it for the few hours they’d been there so far, so how could he expect her to do the same for an entire night? 

So, of course, he took her home.

It doesn’t get much easier after that first night. Stiles is a terrible patient, and even though she’s supposed to be sleeping, resting, avoiding strenuous activities of all types (and he means _all_ , unfortunately. Stiles isn’t the only one disappointed by that one), she does her very best to try and do them anyway. It is the longest seven days of Derek’s life, watching Stiles mope around the apartment. The guilt, he understands that part even though it’s ridiculous, he thinks, for her to feel responsible for any of it, least of all her own fucking head injury. But no matter how many times he tries to talk to her about it ( _he’s the one doing the talking, that’s how frustrated he is)_ , she won’t. Just shrugs him off or changes the subject.

It’s starting to drive him crazy, and he’s pretty sure he’s not the only one suffering here. He can always tell when Stiles is struggling. When she gets tense in that way she does where it feels like he’s watching her walk on a high-wire, waiting for the slightest breeze to knock her off balance and send her plummeting. If she does fall, he’ll be there, he knows that. But if it’s hard for him to watch, he can only imagine how it feels to her. 

And finally, mercifully, she’s cleared after a little more than a week and he can finally fucking do something about it.

…

Stiles never thought she’d be so excited to go to work. _With her dad._ But she’s been trapped in the house under the strict and watchful eye of Derek, who hasn’t let her do anything fun for over a week now. And by anything fun, she really does mean _anything,_ despite her many attempts to tempt him to do otherwise. Curse him and his damn iron will. At the very least, she’d expected to feel less like crawling out of her skin, from the simple reprieve of being stuck indoors and not allowed to do anything, but she’s still practically vibrating with anxiety by the time the day is over and she makes it back to the loft. More tired than she’d anticipated, which Derek will probably be way too smug about, but whatever. She’ll show him. She’s mentally making plans to do just that when she opens the door, but all rational thought is seemingly abandoned because Derek’s already waiting for her. 

And _fuck,_ there’s a lot to take in, and she can’t quite process it all at once, and she doesn’t think she can blame the concussion for that. It’s not like he’s just standing there naked or anything (not that she’d ever complain about that), but he’s not wearing a shirt, which is distracting for so many _lickable_ reasons. It’s not just that, though. It’s also the wildness, that distinct predatory energy she can already feel rolling off of him, the same way she can already feel his eyes on her practically pinning her to the door when he hasn’t even touched her yet. Her mouth goes dry and she feels herself shivering despite the heat.

Then, the rest of the room finally manages to come into focus, and the next thing she notices are the chains. They look similar to ones she’s seen him use on the betas before, hanging from a low beam in the ceiling. The only difference is, instead of the scary spikes and leg-irons, there’s just a pair of simple leather cuffs at the ends, the sight of which makes her stomach tense, because she knows exactly who they’re for.

“Am I in trouble?” Stiles asks, honestly a little shocked by the breathlessness of her own voice. 

Derek cocks his head. “Not that I know of.”

“But I’ve been mopey,” Stiles offers, "and stubborn.” Okay, understatement, she can admit that to herself. Belligerent might, maybe, be a better term. 

“I’m supposed to punish you for being mopey?” Derek bares his teeth in what she thinks is supposed to be a smile and laughs. "And here I thought stubborn was pretty much your natural state.” 

“So this is a fun surprise? A nice present?” Stiles asks, and she finds herself moving closer without realizing, because she wants to be close to him like always, but she also wants to _see._ Derek reaches for her and she goes willingly, tucking her face against his chest, reveling in the heat of his skin against her cheek. He feels good. He always feels good. 

“It’s whatever you want it to be,” Derek murmurs into her hair. “Or nothing’s fine too. Whatever you want.” And god, Stiles knows he really means it, and it kind of makes her understand that heart-fluttering cliche, when he says things like that, being sweet, worrying about her. If she could, she’d go back in time just to spill the beans to her 16-year-old self that Derek Hale was _nice_ . To her. For her. Honestly kind of _just_ for her. She would have never believed it.

The leather looks softer up close, she notes, peeking from under Derek’s arm. Her fingers twitch reflexively, and she wonders how they would feel on her wrists. Different from his belt or that familiar strip of black silk, she guesses. But that, that’s not all she’s wondering about, because then she notices something else she’d apparently missed the first time -- _the mirror._ It’s the floor-length one from the bedroom, and she can’t help blushing when she realizes what it’s for. For him to _watch_ obviously, watch _her._ Stretched out for him, wearing those cuffs. And suddenly her cheeks aren’t the only thing heating up, because her thighs are clenching already just thinking about it. 

“If you want something, you’ll have to say it,” Derek says softly. “You have to ask for it, baby.” 

_Baby, baby, baby._ If Stiles wasn’t about ready to relinquish her dignity and drop her panties right here and now, she’d be at least a little ashamed of how quickly she melts when he calls her that. She never thought she’d be one for pet names, but with Derek, it’s different. Which sounds so lame and stupid and once again, painfully cliche. But dammit, it’s also painfully true. 

With a shuddering breath, she presses her lips, curved into a shy smile, to his chest before finally dragging her eyes up to meet his. They’re piercing, and while not fully alpha-red, they’re already tinged that color of the devil, completely fixed on her as he watches her and waits. “I -- I want it,” Stiles says, quiet but steady. And christ, she really does. He’ll be able to tell that’s the whole truth, at the very least. _“Please.”_

He hums approvingly (she’s grateful he doesn’t question her any further) before leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead that spreads over her like sinking into a warm bath. 

And then, Stiles gets to watch that soft expression on his face shift into something harder, hungrier. And when he speaks next, it’s low and rough and demanding in that way that sends those pulses of want through every inch of her body. “ _Strip.”_

…

From the minute Stiles walked in, Derek’s been hyper-focused on her, tracking her movements, her scent, her heartbeat, her breath. The last thing he wants to do is scare her, although he really should stop worrying about that when it comes to Stiles because he can smell it on her practically the instant she steps into the apartment and sees him. _She’s already desperate for it._

And Stiles, she doesn’t lie to him, either, because she stopped bothering to try a long time ago. So he takes her at her word when he hears that soft, lilting _please._ Her breath hitches predictably at his command, but she’s slow to react, taking long enough for him to narrow his gaze before bringing a hand up to her jaw to trace a clawed finger down her neck. “If you don’t do it now, I’ll do it for you.”

He watches her pulse jump in her throat, and then she’s scrambling out of her clothes in that adorably uncoordinated way she does that always somehow ends up being strangely alluring because it’s so her. 

When she's finally bare, standing in front of him, Stiles doesn’t move, like she’s trying so hard to be still for him. He’s smiling softly at her when he reaches for her again, twines their fingers together and gently leads her across the room. She offers no resistance while he arranges her, lifts her hands over her head. Derek won’t insult her by asking her if she’s sure (mostly because she _hates_ when he does that), but he nudges her forehead with his own when he’s finished fastening the buckles around her wrists, stroking the soft skin of her palms. The question is in his eyes, the way he looks at her: _okay?_

Stiles takes another one of those shuddering breaths, but she offers him a small smile of her own, and that’s all the answer he really needs. Before he lets go of her hands and backs away, he kisses every one of her fingertips, the wolf in his chest incredibly pleased by the little gasps she lets out as he does. 

Derek can see she’s trembling just a little, but her scent is okay, still that swirling mix of need and excitement, a little bit of nervousness, which he obviously can’t fault her for. “You wanted to play,” he says calmly. “There are rules.” This doesn’t appear to shock her, so he continues. “No talking,” he says, which is pretty much par for the course for them-- the crux of that being whether or not she feels like obeying him. That remains to be seen, as always. “But if I ask you a question, I expect you to answer it. Understand?”

He waits a moment, gives her a chance to prove it, but she doesn’t. She’s distracted, he thinks, cocking his head and watching her as she tugs at the restraints. It doesn’t feel like she’s testing them. It feels more like...reassurance, which makes his heart almost literally ache, because she’s needed this for so long, clearly, and up until now, he hasn’t been able to do a thing for her. Not really. “Stiles,” Derek growls, and then his hand flies to her chin, gripping her with his fingers. A firm hold, but not enough to actually hurt her. “What did I just say?”

“M’sorry,” she gasps, jolting to attention, “I understand.”

Derek nods. “You know what’s left, baby, so say it,” he commands, crossing his arms expectantly.

“Say the word, and you’ll stop,” Stiles whispers, her teeth worrying at her lip in a way that just makes him want to claim it all the more. 

“Good girl,” he says. Stiles lets out one of those little pleased noises, so he can’t help catching her lips in a kiss that she enthusiastically returns. “That’s my good girl.” 

Christ, she looks so fucking beautiful like this, every bit of her exposed, those long, lean lines of her body stretched out for him, fully on display. All he can do for too long, god, far too long, is look at her. The milk-white of her skin, she’s luminous, caught in the broken beams of moonlight streaming in through the half-open curtains. 

This time, he’s the one falling to his knees in front of her, running his hands over every inch of her, the swell of her thighs, the concave of her stomach, the curve of her breasts, the sharp jut of her collarbones he’s practically salivating to cut his teeth on.

“Fuck,” he breathes, “you’re so beautiful. Look at you.” 

Stiles just whimpers, shaking her head vigorously in disagreement. He knows what she’s worried about. Most of her wounds have healed, save for the shadow of a few ugly bruises scattered from where she’d fell, still yellowed and slightly purple.

“You’re perfect,” Derek whispers, firmly, pressing his lips to a spot below her belly button. “You’re perfect for me. Every bit of you.” Like hell he’s going to let her think otherwise. He’s more than happy to show her, he thinks, licking his way up her thigh, digging his fingers into her hips to keep her from squirming. The scent of her is dizzying now, when he’s so close, can literally see how wet she is for him already, just from this. God, he’s barely touched her. “You’re so good, Stiles,” he croons, puffing warm breath against her swollen, glistening cunt. “So beautiful. So sweet. So fucking sweet for me.”

He won’t wait any longer, he thinks, his gaze flickering up to her face as he trails a finger up her quivering thigh to finally dip lazily in her folds, just teasing, searching, before bringing that same finger to his mouth and sucking the slick from it with a satisfied sigh. “Yeah, that’s all for me, isn’t it, baby?” 

He asked, so Stiles answers. “Yes, god, yes, all yours --" she whimpers, nodding her head furiously, her breath hitching again in one of those fractured, broken-sounding whines. There’s that tinkling sound of her thrashing in those chains, and then he plunges inside, deep as he can, licking wide, flat stripes up and down her cunt with his tongue, groaning at the way she flutters against his mouth. 

…

It takes every ounce of self-control she has not to cry out, scream his name like she so desperately wants to. God, it’s all too much already. The cuffs, so much softer than she’d imagined they’d be, are digging into the thin skin of her wrists just enough to make the sensation a constant tingling that she can’t block out, which she imagines is the point. Same as the way he’s made it so the chains stretch her out just enough to make her painfully aware of it, but not enough to actually hurt beyond mild strain. If she stands on her tiptoes, it’s hardly even noticeable, the pull on her arms, and shoulders, the bend it forces in her spine. 

His tongue is positively evil, she thinks, her eyes falling closed under the assault. Every languid swirl of it over her swollen clit makes her weak, how he’s devouring her, practically eating her alive. How can he expect her to keep quiet? She’s doing so well, trying so hard to obey that she’s shaking with the effort of it all, her teeth digging into her lip hard enough to practically bleed. She would’ve been fine, she thinks, if he hadn’t gone and curled one of those damn fingers inside of her. It takes her by surprise, how quickly he finds it, that place that makes her vision go white and spotty. “ _Derek, fuck, I --”_

And this time she really thinks she might cry, because god, Derek, _he stops._ Her thighs tighten around him like that could actually be enough to stir him on again. _No, god, please._

“What did I say?” Derek snarls, and she shivers when their eyes meet, because his are blood-red, practically boring into her, and she didn’t think she could feel more naked than she already does, but somehow it happens. 

“No talking,” she breathes out, her fingers twitching again at the sound of his voice, rough and ragged and heavy with need. For her, she realizes, which only sends another shock through her already throbbing pussy. She’s done this to him. Made him this way without even really trying. 

“Apparently that was too much to expect,” Derek muses, and he stands up so suddenly that she hardly realizes he’s missing until she feels it. The loss of him, the ache of emptiness when his mouth and his hands are gone where all she can do is whine again, painful and needy. 

He’s back just as quickly as he’d disappeared, though he’s behind her now, and she bucks against him in surprise, so he grasps her hips firmly with both hands, grinding into her. Derek’s teasing her, punishing her for disobeying. She wonders how else he plans on punishing her. 

_“Open your mouth,”_ he murmurs against her ear, worrying at it with his tongue. She obeys without question this time, determined not to disappoint him again. She jumps, just a little, when he slides that bundle of cloth between her teeth, whispers for her to bite down. He’s teased her with the idea of a gag before, which has always made her insides warm with something that was definitely the opposite of disinterest. They’ve never tried it though, until now. 

He ties the fabric into a knot tightly behind her head; she feels him do it. Still, he’s strangely gentle as he does, and she wishes she could speak only to tell him he doesn’t have to be. That she doesn’t want or need him to be. “If you need to stop,” he whispers, “snap your fingers. I’ll stop, you know I will.” The way he says it, it’s like he’s not quite sure she’ll believe him. Or maybe like he doesn’t quite believe it, and he’s determined to convince himself.

Stiles can only nod again, though she wishes she could remind Derek that she won’t break. She could, she knows that. The evidence of that glaringly obvious fact is written all over her skin. He won’t let her though, is the thing. She’d bet her life on that. Has before.

She breathes out, harsh and fast, when his hands trail down her stomach, low, low, lower, teasing and tracing where he’d left her so tragically abandoned before. When he spears her again, with two fingers this time, she moans, her head falling back, unbidden, against his chest.

“You think I won’t take care of you?” Derek rumbles, scraping his teeth over her shoulder as roughly as he drags his finger over her clit. “You think I’d leave you like this?”

 _Yes_ , she wants to say petulantly. He’s done it before. Sure, he always follows through in the end, and it’s always so worth it. She’s had enough earth-shattering orgasms to attest to that fact. That doesn’t mean the journey there is any less agonizing for her. And god, fuck, hasn’t she suffered enough already this week? 

“You’re mine,” Derek snarls like he’s expecting she’s going to disagree or something (like hell, she thinks). “This,” he says hoarsely, cupping her pussy with a possessive curl of his fingers, “is mine.” 

Stiles chokes, her teeth clenching around the gag. It’s true, god, it’s true. Her whole body practically screams it, from her toes straight up to his mark on her neck, throbbing with renewed yearning. _I do, you know. I belong to you. You’re my girl, aren’t you? Yes, yes, of course I am. You’re mine. Always and forever._

“I take care of what’s mine,” Derek hisses, pressing the tips of his fangs into her shoulder like a warning.

She rolls her hips as he fucks her with his fingers, his rhythm relentless, hard and fast and so fucking perfect because she’s so close, so god damn fucking close. And he knows it, she thinks. He has to. 

The one hand not currently grinding against her cunt is dragging its way up her body, pausing to caress each breast, tease each nipple, dancing over her neck until he finds that scar, slightly raised and shiny-white, not-long-healed. It feels like he’s struck a match against her when he does, her skin somehow even more fevered than before, burning for him. It’s enough, all of it, to send her hurtling right over that cliff, her whole body shuddering, shaking, leaving her faint and breathless as she flies apart in his arms. It’s been days, so it’s almost too intense when she’s coming, so much so that she shrieks loud enough that the cloth between her teeth does almost nothing to muffle it. 

…

It hasn’t even been that long. Not even two weeks, and before her, he’d gone years without anything close to this. It’s not even him getting off that he’s missed. It’s _this._ Making her fall apart in his hands, under his mouth, with his words. It’s too good. Makes him too selfish. Makes him never, ever want to give her up. That cry she lets out when that first orgasm hits her, he feels it right in his bones. He’s ignored his own needs, his painfully hard cock, because he’s been so enraptured with her -- her scent, her skin, how completely and utterly _his_ she is like this, unable to touch, unable to speak, trusting him with her body completely. 

Her eyes have been squeezed shut through most of this, but she finally opens them long enough to catch his in the mirror. Derek is oddly proud when she gasps at the sight, presumably shocked at her own appearance -- those rid-rimmed eyes, blown-out pupils with hardly a sliver of golden brown left in them, her hair wild and unkempt from him fisting it roughly in his hands, the obscene stretch of her mouth around that gag. But her scent only turns again to that syrupy sweet that’s as warm as the blush now flaming furiously across her delicate cheekbones. 

“I know,” Derek rubs his beard appreciatively into the back of her neck, “look at you. And I haven't even fucked you yet.”

Stiles keens, rocking back against him. 

“Yeah,” Derek mumbles, stroking her belly soothingly, feeling her trembling still under his palm. “You still want more, don’t you, baby?”

Stiles just sighs and bares her throat, her eyes somehow managing to turn even darker, beckoning him to take her. It's an invitation she knows he can basically never refuse because, fuck, he’s not an idiot. He frees his cock from his pants with an exhale of relief, bucking into her and earning a groan from Stiles for his efforts when he slides through all that slick, teasing her clit. 

He sinks blunt teeth into that tendon in her neck the same time he plunges inside her with a harsh thrust of his hips against her ass. She screams, the sound dampened, a shudder running through her whole body, and he growls, flashing his eyes at her in the glass. When he bottoms out, finally, his hips pressed flush against her, they both moan, and Derek buries his gasp into that place behind her ear that he always loves to lick the taste of her from. 

She probably expects him to fuck her rough, relentless like she’s always eager for him to do, but that’s precisely why he’s not going to. Why he doesn’t move once he’s fully sheathed inside her, digging his fingers into her hip and sliding his other hand up her arms to meet her hands, twisting around both them and the chain she’s dangling from. 

After a minute of this, Stiles starts to squirm, and Derek simply bites down on her collarbone again, tearing another metered cry from her throat he can feel against his mouth. He rubs his stubble possessively over the abused flesh, those swollen marks from his teeth, rumbling soothing words into the curve of her shoulder. When she tries to thrust her hips back, he just holds her tighter. He’ll move when he’s damn well ready to move. 

“Now that I’ve got your attention, you’re going to listen to me,” he murmurs. “Because I need you to understand something, and apparently this was how to get you to shut up long enough to hear it.” 

Derek feels her gasp catch in her lungs, stiffening in his arms, her lashes fluttering wildly as she locks gazes with him in the mirror.

He presses his lips to the dip between her shoulder blades, trailing kisses up the curve of her jaw until she breathes out again, softer, calmer. It’s then he speaks, murmuring into the thin skin there. _It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault._

The ragged sob she lets out is enough to know she’s heard him. She thrashes too, like she could actually get away, like he’d let her. Not until she says the word. He waits a moment, huffing hot air against her back, but the only noise she makes is another broken-sounding hiccup. 

With every word he whispers in her ear, she trembles -- she’s not weak, he murmurs, not in the slightest. She’s strong, brave, braver than all of them probably. Because when she fights, if she gets hurt, she’s not going to heal like they can, but she does it anyway. She's not fragile. She’s everything he needs. Everything he would ever want and more. 

But most of all, she’s his.

Forever. 

“You’re mine,” he repeats, graveled and forceful, his eyes glowing like smoldering embers. He growls in satisfaction when he swipes his thumb over her tear-stained cheeks and brings it to his mouth. “My mate. My equal. _Don’t you ever fucking forget that.”_

Finally, finally he gives himself the freedom to move, pulling out until he’s barely inside before slamming into her again. Stiles throws her head back, a guttural moan catching in her throat, dampened by the gag. 

She’s hot and so wet, the sight of his cock slipping in and out of her, the way her juices glisten from where they’re coating her inner thighs, it’s driving him crazy. She always drives him so goddamn crazy. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he curses, and because he wants to hear her, need to really hear her, he finally releases that bruising hold he’s had on her hipbone long enough to slash through the knot at the back of her head. 

Stiles whines, letting out a shaky sound of relief, his hand cupping her throat, squeezing and stroking just enough to make her mewl. She's still painfully needy. _“Please,”_ she says, voice scratchy and a little hoarse from disuse. “Fuck me. Come on, _do it.”_

Derek laughs into the shell of her ear. “I thought I already was,” he says cockily, punctuating the words with another deep thrust that knocks another gasp out from between her lips.

_“Derek.”_

…

The feel of him, huge and broad, draped over her back, his cock impossibly deep inside of her, every roll of his hips that somehow sends him even deeper, shooting blistering heat through her whole body and all the way out to her fingers and toes. Curling in anticipation already. That, coupled with the sting of the leather dug into her wrists, the ache in her shoulders turning into something close to numbness, it’s dizzying, disorienting. Too much in that still- empty, need-more, not-enough way that sex with Derek just never stops being. 

She feels hollowed out from more than just his mouth, his hands, his cock. It’s the words too, the ones he murmured into her ear that sent tears streaming down her face, made her stomach flip, her heart hurt like he’d cracked her chest, reached in, and squeezed it. 

When she hisses his name like a curse, he laughs again, god damn him, _he laughs._ Stiles growls in frustration, yanking on the cuffs, trying to force him to drive into her the way she needs him to. 

“Uh-uh,” Derek says, shaking his head before grabbing her by the jaw again, forcing her eyes back on their reflection. And Stiles would be embarrassed if she could still feel anything close to shame at the moment, because it’s more than a little obscene, the sight of their bodies, pale and golden, slick with sweat and her cum that’s been dripping over his cock and down her thighs. “Didn’t I tell you I’d take care of you?”

Then why hasn’t he? She wants to pout, cry, bunch up her fists and stomp her feet like a child throwing a tantrum. “Yes,” she breathes. “But I want --,” she begs, stuttering when he grinds into her again, still that same agonizingly slow pace. _“I was good.”_

“You were,” Derek agrees, swirling his tongue in the hollow of her throat, sending gooseflesh pebbling up and down her arms. “You are.” 

“You love me, don’t you?”

Derek doesn’t answer, but he grips her by the hair and yanks, making her yelp in surprise, before crushing his mouth to hers, which she guesses is an answer in itself. 

Maybe she’s reached a level of pathetic that even he can’t ignore, or he’s suddenly decided to be merciful. God, she doesn’t care either way, because finally, finally he starts to move again, fucking into her with relentless snaps of his hips that knock these punched-out little sobs from her chest that she can’t stifle. He’s so hot she feels like she might burn up in his arms. It feels a lot like combusting when he buries his face into the back of her neck, spilling into her with a strangled snarl. He pulses inside her, showering her with sloppy presses of his lips to every bit of skin within his reach.

All it takes is the heel of his hand pressed against her swollen clit to drag her over the edge with him.

. She’s not aware of much else anymore but the rush of endorphins still flooding her veins, her nervous system practically misfiring like some kind of busted circuit board. Her breath is still coming in heavy pants, and her eyelids feel too heavy to even think about opening. She hears herself whimpering helplessly, her hands twisting uselessly against the leather and rattling the chains.

“Shhh,” Derek says, and Stiles sighs gratefully when he undoes the cuffs and rubs the rough and bruised skin left behind with reverent strokes of his fingers. The examination continues, with him running careful hands over the slope of her shoulders, the curve of her back. She’s thankful he’s the one holding on to her still because she doesn’t think she’d be able to stand upright if he wasn’t. Her knees feel like they’re _this close_ to buckling. 

She’s only faintly aware of being moved, Derek tucking an arm under her knees, her arms looped instinctively around his neck as he carries her down the hallway to the bathroom. 

“Don’t drop me,” she mumbles against his chest, relishing in the sound of his heartbeat, a steady thump against her cheek.

“I’m not going to drop you.”

“I’m just saying. You drop me, that's a moment that follows you the rest of your life,” she says under her breath. 

Derek rolls his eyes. She doesn’t see it, but she can hear it in his voice. “How are you talking already? You couldn’t even move. You were practically brain-dead like two minutes ago.”

“I’m a woman of many talents, Sourwolf,” she retorts, protesting weakly when he sets her down on the counter so he can fill up the tub for her. She forgives him for leaving her for that brief moment, however, when it’s only minutes later when he’s lowering her into the hot water and starts to massage the tension from her still-aching shoulders. 

“Thank you,” she mutters, resting her chin on the porcelain edge with a contented sigh. 

“You’re welcome.”

“I don’t just mean for the bath,” she whispers.

“I know,” he says, combing through her damp hair with his nails. 

He’s too good. Sometimes she doesn’t even know how to process how good he is. To her, for her. She’s not sure what she’s done that’s ever been enough to deserve him, but who is she to look a gift horse in the mouth? Especially when that gift is _Derek._

“We should get married.”

The washcloth Derek’s been swirling over her back pauses, and he snorts. “I was under the impression you knew what that ring on your finger was for, but I guess we need to go over it again?”

“I thought we decided I was the one bringing the funny to this relationship.”

“Oh, is that what we’ve decided?” Derek asks, pinching her hip playfully. “So, if you’re bringing the funny, what exactly am I bringing to the table then?” 

“Eyebrows,” Stiles says, grinning toothily into her knee and hiding her snicker, “and, you know, a really big co--”

“ _Nope,”_ Derek growls, pulling on her hair again in a way that’s clearly supposed to be scolding. Jokes on him, because it has the opposite effect, and she shivers when those familiar sparks of pleasure tingle down her scalp. 

“I mean it though,” she says quietly, once that easy silence falls between them again. “I want it to be soon.”

Derek arches an eyebrow, curious. “How soon?”

“Tomorrow?” she asks, smirking. It’s mostly a joke, but honestly, if she had her way, tomorrow would be just fine with her, but she’s pretty sure neither she or Derek would live to see the honeymoon once Lydia found out.

“I’m pretty sure a few people we know would be less than pleased if that were to happen,” he says, chuckling. 

“Fine,” Stiles says. “Before summer ends, then. Before college starts.”

Derek hums, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I think that could probably be arranged.”

“Perfect."

And it really, really is, she thinks. 


End file.
